“Be careful what you wish for.” Aunt Evelyn folded her fingers together, resembling a church steeple. “You and Marc aren’t meant to be long term. Today will be memorable for both of you. After that . . .”
I allowed myself a twinge of disappointment. To wade deeper into the lake of self-pity would tarnish any joy on the horizon. “Thank you.”
“Oh, dear one”—her voice softened into a whisper—“be thankful you at least have today.”
I crammed my emotional baggage back into the closet and headed out the door.
* * *
* * *
Marc was on his phone when I arrived. His shoulders were hitched high to his ears, and if the muscles of his body were a string, they would be tangled into a Gordian knot. His harsh, clipped tone harnessed his command of French into a weapon.
I couldn’t catch anything from the conversation except from the clear body language: it must be another call from work.
His hand clenched into a fist around his phone. He’d been so locked into the call that he only noticed my presence after he hung up. “I’m sorry. Things are blowing up at work.”
“If it’s that stressful, can you find another job?”
“I can, but I have too much at stake where I am right now. My field is competitive. I’d rather leave on good terms. Recommendations are important.” The tension he carried melted away. Marc flashed a smile. “This would be easier if you already knew what I do.”
I hadn’t made much progress in our little game. If I’d been fluent in French, I’d have known what his job was after the first phone call. He carried no physical signs other than the faded scars on his hands. He wasn’t a contractor or a freelancer because he had a boss, not clients. The elevated stress levels at his work environment indicated he worked with a team.
“I promise you that I’ll guess by the end of the day.”
He stuffed his phone into his leather bag. “We never talked about your reward, did we?”
“I thought having your services as my tour guide was my prize.”
“No,” Marc laughed. “You get to win something.” He held out his hand. “Come on, let’s get our day started.”
I placed my hand in his. He squeezed. Feeling our hands together, fingers intertwined like woven reeds in a rattan basket, I longed for what I couldn’t have. Tomorrow was for worrying, but today was for living. I was a carefree tourist out on a date with a charming chaperone.
* * *
* * *
Marc and I headed up the stairway from the Champ de Mars station. Rain descended in steady curtains, obscuring the Eiffel Tower in the distance. The panorama was Gustave Caillebotte’s oil painting Paris Street; Rainy Day come to life.
The sound of the drops hitting metal surfaces reminded me of constant applause by unseen hands. We ducked into a nearby café to escape the downpour. It had been sunny when we left Rue du Bac Station.
“No worries. We can go another time. The rest of the day is going to be spent indoors anyway at galleries and museums.” He reached into his pocket for his tiny notebook and scratched something off. “We’ll head to Voltaire Station next.”
“You’re not bothered by the change in plans?” I asked.
“Why would I be? It gives me a great excuse to see you again later. Besides, I have a backup plan.” He waved two tickets before me. “I always come prepared.”
“Meticulous. Must be a helpful trait in your profession.”
“It is,” he replied. “Details are very important. Everything has to look right.”
A visual artist or designer, or even an architect to place such an emphasis on aesthetics.
“Your job is hands on, right? I have a hard time seeing you parked in a cubicle in front of screens all day.”
“A desk job would be a nightmare. I never could sit still, even as a kid. I needed to focus and channel all that nervous energy into something productive. My family helped me do that.”
I pictured Marc as an adorable seven-year-old running through the schoolyard: thick dark hair spiking in the breeze, little legs pumping, powered with boundless energy, arms outstretched with hopes he could launch himself up to the sky.
“Are you in the family business? You told me your mother’s a clinical psychologist. What does your father do?”
“He’s a . . .” Marc laughed. “Can’t say. It’s related to what I do.”
I arched my brow.
“You’re getting much closer to the answer. I have no doubt